Gravity doesn't grant me the privilege of failure.

Let's try something new. I mean, you've heard enough of my words. Ingested enough of my thoughts. You've been opened to my views.

How about I give you a poem now that was not written by me? It's a poem that gave me the same feeling I've been trying to transfer to you through my own articles and poems.

I think it's one of the most beautiful things ever written. Many people don't see it, because humanity is shit.
"If the average human being can relate to a song that goes 'You like boys, who dig girls, who dig boys, who dig girls etc.' better than to a song that goes 'Maybe I don't really wanna know how your garden grows, because I just wanna fly'...then that is sad." - Liam Gallagher, Oasis vocalist.

Most people think that guy's a fuckhead, but can a guy that says something like that really be a fuckhead? I think not.
This poem is beautiful and deep. You cannot avoid it digging into you and grasping what is hidden deep inside you. It's so beautiful that it even played a significant role in my decision to start all this. Well now I think it's time for me to acknowledge it.

It's a sad poem. Because you can work your way up to happiness from sadness, and that's an effort worth documenting. It is not, however, worth putting the dark fall down to misery on this site. I've stressed it enough before.

So, when you read this poem, consider your life. And maybe then you'll realise how spoiled you really all are. How far backwards our lifestyle has taken us from reality.

Note: this is actually a song by a band called Circle Takes the Square, but I prefer to consider it a poem, because what this song has to offer musically is too extreme for the large majority of the population.

Crowquill
by Circle Takes the Square

Nothing's as lucid as the promise of dreams
But these pills we found just make me sleep.
There's nothing quite as pure as the written word my dear
So let’s have ourselves a little poem.

Until the will to speak loses urgency,
Our animal indecency in print is so blaze.
It’s about the bell tower, at the golden hour.
Angel of the spires climbs here
Steel cage staircase spine, angle of desire.
Ascend the wrought iron, one by one, wrung by wrung.
Is it the rising roof line that
Makes me feel so swallowed whole?
Or the way my body barely pricks the sky?
The same as a century's worth of virgin's blood
That's passed through my longing veins,
Scheming to convince my aching mind
That pleasure's got nothing on the miracle of need.

Nothing's as puerile as meter and rhyme
When you can't see the ground from that ledge
And this perch is so far, far from the nest.
Gravity doesn't grant me the privilege of failure

My bough never breaks; I don’t stumble into anything,
So I climb and I carve my initials in the bark
With that feather I found but its all so contrived.
My genes didn't bless me with the foresight of a sage
But I know how this will end:
In apologies and ink on the page.
A slowly constructed crow quilled confession
Of my spirit to all of you,
Black waterproof ink scars the board,
So hot-pressed, pristine and pure,
A slowly constructed manifestation of "to tremble",
As base as a bridge in a song
And less like the poem that I promised you

Nothing's as lurid as Haiku d’Etat
On sidewalks in white outlined chalk,
All I’ve got is this ink smeared lines
With our voices in harmony,
The offering of a crow quilled threnody.